When there’s nothing left,

Consider the stars falling overhead,

A stranger passing on a bridge,

Random words overheard.

Forget astrology.

Take the stars literally,

The bridge as metaphor,

The stranger as familiar.

Take metaphor as metaphor

…

Every step desire.

Every step disaster.

It isn’t written in the stars.

It is written in a constellation

Of syllables collapsing

Along your synapses

Into electric silence.

- From What the stars will bring by Greg Hewett

You came one day and

as usual in such matters

significance filled everything -

your eyes, the things you

knew, the way you turned,

learned, stood, or sat,

this way or that: when

you left, the area around here rose

a tilted tide, and everything that

offers desolation drained away.

- From Everything, by AR Ammons

She knows she follows some order

and does what she has to do.

Without steps backward and forward

we’d be invisible

like anger or memories.

- Ernest Farres

It’s an old story, better told than I tell,

how artists shape what hurts like hell

(usually love) into separate empires

of lust, tenderness, and lesser desires.

- From Omens of Winter by Diane Ackerman

Reconstruction

It’s a year on. On my way to work, the city looks normal. As it should be. I don’t know if I’d prefer to see everyone dressed in black (as I am, today), looking slightly sad and mournful (check). But it shocked me to see people laughing (as I am sure I will in the course of the day) and chatting and going about their daily work. Can we stop? All of us? For five minutes. And consider the fact that nothing has really changed. If tonight, god forbid, more terrorists get off boats and run into, say, Colaba or maybe Bandra, for a change, I really, really doubt that the response will be any different from last year. Maybe the Force One commandos will do something but will anything else really change? No. And there lies the tragedy of it.

Last year, I posted a verse by Eliot. This year, here’s a poem by Zoë Skoulding. Reconstruction captures, in the way that only good poetry can, the manner in which we rebuilt and forgot what it was that existed before this did.

These days you forget how the bricks
were piled up all over again,
their edges just where they were before
as if nothing had happened.

As if nothing had happened
they hold the shop-fronts up, the bricks
under stucco and paint again
making a surface as they did before
the words fell down.

The words fell down
and nobody knew what had happened
to the places that bricks
were not the edges of. Making them again
meant bricking up the way things were before,
so that nothing could ever be different.

Although it is different
you forget it, looking down
the street where if you happened
not to know you’d never see where new bricks
are mortared to the old. The walls are here again
but the air between them changed before
it could be sealed inside a memory,

for if you build around a memory
words come first and walls follow. It’s no different
from how it was, the plaster smoothed down
over the gap of what might never have happened.
The sky glows on an outline of bricks.
You open the window wordlessly. You shut it. Again
the room shifts another breath from what it was before
whatever it was that these days you forget.

The Tragedy of Narcissus The Comedy of Silver

I am a supporter of the Palestinian cause and love Mahmoud Darwish for the eloquence and emotion of his writing. These lines are excerpted from a very long and very poignant poem that I cannot stop reading.

As for places of exile, they are places and times that change their kin
they are the evenings that dangle from windows that look upon no one
they are the arrivals to coasts aboard a ship that has lost its horses
they are the birds that exceed the eulogy of their songs . . . and the land
that belongs to the throne, and abbreviates nature in a body.

- Mahmoud Darwish; Translated from the Arabic by Fady Joudah

I am a great lover of Urdu verse – poetry, ghazals, qawwalis, anything at all. The beauty of the language is incomparable and I spend hours reading Faiz, Iqbal and several others. This qawwali, sung most beautifully by the late Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, is my favourite. Its sentiment and its poetry can move to tears.  I’ve highlighted my favourite lines.

Saqi Ki Har Nigah Pay Bal Kha Kay Pee Gaya
Lehroon Say Khailta Hoa Lehra Kay Pee Gaya
Dancing to every look of the wine-giver, I drank
Playing with the waves, I drank

Ey Rehmat-E-Tamaam Meri Har Khata Muaf
Mein Intiha-E-Shouq (Mein) Say Ghabra Kay Pee Gaya
O Lord, forgive my sins
That I was afraid, but still with great pleasure, I drank

Peta Baghair Izm Yeh Kab Thi Meri Majaal
Dar Pardah Chashm-E-Yaar Ki Shay Pa Kay Pee Gaya
That I would drink without prerogative, when did I have such courage?
With the acquiescence of my lover’s veiled eyes, I drank

Paas Rehta Hai Duur Rehta Hai
Koi Dil Mein Zaroor Rehta Hai
Close to me, far from me
Someone surely lives in my heart

Jab Say Dekha Hai Un Ki Aankhon Ko
Halka Halka Suroor Rehta Hai
Since I have seen her eyes
This mild inebriation remains with me

Aisay Rehtay Hein Koi Mere Dil Mein
Jaisay Zulmat Mein Noor Rehta Hai
She lives in my heart
Like light lives in darkness

Ub Adam Ka Yeh Haal Hai Har Waqt
Mast Rehta Hai Chuur Rehta Hai
Now is the state of this man that all the time
I remain enraptured, broken

Yeh Joh Halka Halka Saroor Hai
Yeh Teri Nazar Ka Qasoor Hai
This mild intoxication
It is the fault of your gaze

Kay Sharab Peena Sikha Diya
Tere Pyar Nai, Teri Chaah Nai
That you have taught me how to drink
With my desire, my longing for you
Teri Behki Behki Nigaah Nai
Mujhay Ik Sharabi Bana Diya…
Your flirtatious looks
Have made me a lover of wine

Sharab Kaisi, Khumaar Kaisa
Yeh Sub Tumhari Nawazishein Hein
What a drink, what a high
These are all your gifts

Pilai Hai Kiss Nazar Say Tu Ne
Kay Mujhko Apni Khabar Nahi Hai
How you have made me elated with your looks
That I am not even aware of myself

Teri Behki Behki Nigah Nai
Mujhe Ik Sharabi Bana Dia
Your flirtatious looks
Have made me a lover of wine

Sara Jahan Must, Jahan Ka Nizam Must
Din Must, Raat Must, Saher Must, Shaam Must
The whole world is exhilarated
Day, night, morning and evening
Dil Must, Sheesha Must, Sabu Must, Jaam Must
Hai Teri Chashm-E-Must Say Her Khaas-O-Aam Must
The heart is intoxicated, so is the mirror, the glass and even the wine itself
Your captivating eyes have made everything delirious

Yoon To Saqi Her Tarah Ki Tere MaiKhane Mein Hai
Woh Bhi Thori Si Jo In Aankhon K Paimane Mein Hai
Every kind of wine resides in your cellar
And then there is that look in those eyes as well
Sub Samajhta Hoon Teri Ishwa-Kari Ay Saqi
Kaam Karti Hai Nazar Naam Hai Paimane Ka.. Bus!
I understand your cleverness well
It is the fault of your gaze, but the blame is put on the wine

Teri Behki Behki Nigah Nai
Mujhe Ik Sharabi Bana Diya
Your flirtatious looks
Have made me a lover of wine

Tera Pyar Hai Meri Zindagi
Tera Pyar Hai Meri Bandagi
To love you is my life
To love you is my bondage

Tera Pyar Hai Bas Meri Zindagi,
Tera Pyar Hai Bas Meri Zindagi
To love you is my life,
To love you is my life

Na Namaz Aati Hai Mujhko, Na Wazoo Aata Hai
Sajda Kar Leta Hoon Jab Saamnay Tu Aata Hai
Not prayer nor ablution do I know
I prostrate when before me you come
Bus Meri Zindagi Tera Pyar Hai
My life is only my love for you

Mai Azal Say Banda-E-Ishq Hoon,
Mujhe Zohd-O-Kufr Ka Gham Nahin
I am a true lover
With no fear of the hereafter
Mere Sir Ko Dar Tera Mil Gaya
Mujhe Ab Talash-E-Haram Nahi
Now that my head has found your mat
No need have I to search for heaven

Meri Bandagi Hai Wo Bandagi
Jo Muqeed-E-Dair-O-Haram Nahi
My bondage is to that spot
Which is tied to no sacred place
Mera Ik Nazar Tumhein Dekhna
Ba Khuda Namaz Se Kam Nahi
My taking one look at you
By God is equal to prayer

Meri Zindagi Tera Pyar Hai
Bus Meri Zindagi Tera Pyar Hai
My life is only my love for you
My life is only my love for you

(Translation courtesy Ego Mag)

The Paris Review has published translations of previously-unpublished pieces by Rilke, called Interiors. Here is an excerpt:

You cannot hold anything against this calm and tranquil occupation: the story of Zoroaster, that of Plato, that of Jesus Christ and Columbus and Leonardo and Napoleon and many more, did need to get written. In other words, these stories wrote themselves, so to speak. Every one of this cast of characters etched a furrow in the great gray brain of the earth, and we all carry a miniature reproduction of this archetypal brain within us, like a pocket watch or the small round pill of a compass that shows where the sun rises over a worthy citizen’s belly.

Later the stories of rare women came into existence; but here a little assistance was necessary, and a logic and a mnemotechnic were invented for the geocentric primary brain that even the historians of today are still proud of. In our most recent century, which has almost died away now, people worked more and more on the paysage intime—they wanted to tell the story of the nameless individuals.
Someone finally seemed to notice that battles don’t only take place at Thermopylae or Hastings or Austerlitz, sometimes the battlefield is called Fear or Desire or Ingratitude; that not every discovery is of America; that not every invention has to arrive at gunpowder or the steam engine or the airship in order to be meaningful and, in a certain sense, fruitful. And so it has become the norm to present not true, authenticated heroes, but plausible, authentic-seeming heroes. To this end they have spent the last few decades ripping apart the heroes of the past and the usable contemporaries and putting together new, ever new possibilities from the unrecognizable pieces.

These possibilities are supposed to come across as interesting or singular human beings, at least when you look at them in the right light, from a certain angle. And people keep making these attempts, incessantly, keep manufacturing modern legitimacies that make the old measures seem moderate; they’re very happy when one of these specimens, after they attach its head not to its torso but to its right toe, clings to life for a while.

That’s how people become clever. In other words, they lay in a collection of more or less serious experiences and then have to rent an extra room to hold all the fruits of their vigorous, diligent research. When you look at it this way, of course, the rare types and unexpected nuances count most heavily. And it may indeed be that mature human beings, standing in sharp contrast to their surroundings, do experience strange things, and in the strangest way too. It is said that their “fate” is of the greatest interest, and two things are meant by this word: that which strikes them from without, and their actions and reactions when faced with these blows and impressions.

I am reading the His Dark Materials trilogy by Philip Pullman and enjoying it immensely. This is a line from the first book, The Northern Lights.

We are all subject to the fates. But we must all act as if we are not, or die of despair.

Interpretation

This is one of my favourite poems, ever. Seth is such a beautiful writer of both prose and poetry.

Somewhere within your loving look I sense,
Without the least intention to deceive,
Without suspicion, without evidence,
Somewhere within your heart the heart to leave.
- Vikram Seth